Dark Age
by bcampo
Summary: A young queen is resurrected to find her family dead and her kingdom in shambles


Dark Age

by [Brian Campo][1] (bcampo@hotmail.com)

Prologue   


Screams echoed in the hills and the smoke billowing from bonfires turned the sky black. Wounded and dead men lay in the dirt streets of the little village and most of the wounded looked as if they would be joining their brothers soon. 

Above the screams of the dying, one voice could be heard. It was deep, full of rage, the kind of voice that got your attention and demanded respect. In the middle of the village center he stood, shouting orders, delving out an occasional slap across the back of someone's head. 

"Hurry, you stupid bastards." he yelled. What remained of his war band was gathered around a fallen tree. Some were busy cutting off limbs while others worked at the top, carving it to a fine point. He stood over them, urging them on. 

He shoved the men at the top aside and surveyed their work. "This will work." he said. "Bring it out." His men dropped their axes and ran to a small stone building. The building was where they usually kept their meat, but it had temporarily become a prison of sorts. While one of the soldiers got ready to open the door, the rest drew their swords and prepared their selves for what ever came out. The soldier heaved the cross-bar up and quickly stepped out of the way as two men with bows and arrows kicked the door open and waved their arrow tips around the small room. 

"It" lay on the floor, leaning against the back wall. Maybe, once, it had been a man. Now it was a blood streaked beast, weak and beaten. And it would not die. The villagers had spent the better part of the after noon proving just that. It had showed up at mid-day with a broad-sword and a chip on it's shoulder big enough to crush just about the whole village. It had been unstoppable as it stomped through the town, killing anything that got in it's way. By the time it reached the village square it was fairly bristling with arrows. Several of it's victims had even got their blades into it before it took their heads, but that didn't even slow it down. 

Dercant, the big man who ruled the village was the one that had finally stopped it's nightmarish onslaught. He attacked it with the ferocity and rage that his family was known for, hacking and pummeling it into the ground. Once he got it down, it kept trying to get up. Every time it would try to get to it's feet, Dercant would slam his sword down on it again. It would bleed for a second and then the wound would close up, miraculously. 

He picked it up and tossed it into the bonfire at the village square. It rolled out, beat out the flames and started to get to it's feet. Dercant began to lose his patience. He and his men jumped on it all at once and dragged it to the meat shed where they threw it in and barred the door. 

Until they could decide what to do with it. 

Dercant thought that he might have an idea. 

His men drug the struggling madman out into the open and Dercant had his first good look at what they where dealing with. It was pale, like a corpse, and you can believe that Dercant had seen plenty of those in his day. Though the days beatings had smudged most of it off, it appeared that it was wearing some kind of make up on it's face. Maybe it was was celt,he thought or scotti, perhaps. They had been known to paint their faces before going in to battle. But they usually painted their faces blue, not white. Just another mystery in the many surrounding this thing. While six men held the thing still, the rest threw down their swords and ran to the tree. He gave them a nod and they picked the sharpened log up and pointed it at the things exposed gut. "Do it." he said and the two groups of men ran at each other. The tip of the the make shift stake shoved through it's gut and the creature made a noise for the first time since it had come to the village. It screamed. "Keep going." he told his men and they shoved on the stake again. It's tip tore out his back and the creature slumped in their arms, all the fight had gone out of it. Following Dercant's plan the men carried the stake with the creature on it to the the center of the village square, where a two foot hole had been dug. They eased the blunt end of the stake down into the hole and stood the stake up straight. The creature gasped as it's own body weight forced it farther down on the stake. While they continued to hold the stake up straight, the rest of the men filled the hole back in so the stake could stand up by itself. Dercant walked up and grabbed the creature by the hair. He yanked it's head down so it could look him in the eye. "Who sent you?" he asked. It didn't say anything, but it's eyes wandered to a crow resting on one of the nearby huts. 

Dercant bellowed with laughter. "Did the bird send you? Well, I'm sending you back." He raised his blood streaked family sword above his head and said, "When you get to hell, tell 'em it was a Wicklander that sent you." 

The sword fell. 

Winter covered the land, blanketing the world in white and cold. The snow had gotten so deep that in many parts of the forest, only the tops of the trees were visible. It had been falling slowly for a year straight, not even bothering to stop for spring or summer. The deer and other plant eaters were moving on south in search of food, leaving the carnivores with slim pickings. Packs of starving wolves roamed the forest, bringing down anything that made the mistake of moving within their eyesight. They were hungry and dangerous. 

A crow flapped down through the valley, it's raucous caws echoing off of the mountains. The wolves heard it and raced to keep up with it. Not that they thought they could catch the crow. It was just that crows were good at finding dead meat, and dead meat was food. 

The trees thinned out into a clearing and the crow came to the ground in the middle of it. Several wolves burst out of the tree-line, snarling and snapping at each other in an effort to get to the carcass first. As they got nearer to the crow, they were surprised to find no food. One of them rushed at the bird, gnashing it's teeth at it. The bird hopped out of it's way and screamed "Fuck off!" 

The wolves began to grow wary. There was a very wrong smell around the crow. To their sensitive nostrils, it stank of traps and poisons. Mingled in were the scents of diseased meat and wolf blood. The smells inspired scary pictures in the wolves heads. Thoughts of fire and bow toting humans. They circled the bird cautiously, torn between their hunger and their fear. The bird hopped at them; screeching angrily, and they backed off quickly. 

It was getting darker and though you couldn't see it for the thick cloud cover, the sun was setting. A strong wind was kicking up, turning the cold air frigid. A scratching sound came from below their feet. The sound of digging and clawing. The wolves ears twitched as they listened and they snuck their noses into the snow, snort- ing. It didn't sound like subterranean rodents. It sounded much larger. It was getting closer to the top. 

The hard crust on top of the snow cracked and a pale, white, hand thrust through it. It clawed at the snow, fighting for purchase on the slick surface. Another hand burst through. The fingers dug in and a woman pulled herself out of the hole. She raised her head to the darkening sky and screamed. 

She fell on to her side and lay there panting. She wore no clothes and she was so thin that her bones threatened to break through her skin in places. Though her body was covered with some serious wounds, they were miraculously healing and fading. Her skin turned to goosebumps at the touch of the wind and she curled up with her knees to her chest. 

The crow skipped up close to her and said "Lynn, you've got to get up and start moving." In reply she gave a pained moan and hugged herself closer. "I know you're supposed to be be dead, girl," said the crow. "but you've got some work to do before you can rest." She gave no indication that she had heard him. Instead, she acted like a person who had been woke up too early and was trying go to back to sleep. 

"You really must be getting up, Lynn. Life can be such a tenuous thing in your condition. You must be careful to not let it slip away." 

The wolves stayed their distance from the two, watching them with interest. This was getting stranger the longer it went on. 

The crow leaned down so it beak was just an inch away from the woman's face. It's voiced changed to that of an older man when it said, "Magpie, girl, it's time to go." 

She opened her eyes and whispered, "Daddy?" 

"That's right, Lynn. Get up." 

The woman got shakily to her feet. For the first time she noticed the wolves. 

"Don't worry." said the crow. "They can't hurt you." 

She turned and walked toward the forest. The crow watched her for a moment and then turned to the wolves. 

"You're welcome to follow us." it said. "There's bound to be plenty of fresh meat where she's going." 

High above the forest flew a crow. It's black feathers ruffled in the wind. Below, a naked woman ran through the snow. Her body was filling out. Muscles were recovering their shape and strength. Her run had evolved from a limping gaite to a ground eating sprint and the wolf pack was sore pressed to keep up with her. Her long, black hair had dried and flowed out behind her as she ran. She moved like she had a mission. 

Manion Fogel was a peddler who had sold his country to the devil, and he didn't feel the least bit guilty about it. He was a short, barrel-shaped man who looked like he spent a good deal of his time sitting on his plentiful ass. Which he did. He owned a wagon and a team of mules that he used to haul his wares from town to town. His travels sometimes even took him off into other countries. So, indeed, he spent many a day sitting on the bouncing seat of his wagon, expending only enough energy to shift his weight occasionally when his ass grew numb against the hard wood. 

On this particular night, he had made camp next to a frozen stream. After a brief struggle and a lot of cursing he had even gotten a fire lit and he warmed his hands over it's meager heat. He looked around his camp site with occasional glances. He had had the strangest feeling all night. Like he was being watched. Yet every time he spun around, sure that that there was some attacker behind him, there was no one. The wind gusted in and threatened to blow out his tiny fire. 

"It's an ill wind that blows." he muttered and ran a hand over the back of his neck. It felt like death itself had given him an icy kiss there. His mules gave a startled snort and a crow dropped to the ground across the the fire from him. His heart skipped three beats and he suddenly realised that his bladder was very full. 

"Fuck!" he yelled at the bird. "You scared the shit out me! Get your black ass out of here before I wring your scrawny neck!" 

He hardly looked spry enough to be catching the crow. The crow turned it's head and eyed him. To Manion, this did not seem like the idle curiosity of an animal. There was intelligence in it's eyes when it stared at him. 

"Get out of here!" he yelled and threw a stick at it. The crow danced out of it's way and squawked. 

There was that feeling again. Like there was someone behind him. He turned and was hit in the side of the head with something very hard. He toppled over and his bladder emptied. 

Manion woke to find himself trussed up and bound to a tree. The crow now sat in one of the branches of a nearby oak. Someone or something was digging in his wagon and many of his goods and wares were scattered across the ground. "Hey!" he yelled. "Get the fuck away from there!" The sound of his own voice made his head swim. 

He struggled against his bonds, but they were tight. A lantern came spinning through the air and crashed to the ground at his feet. The glass inside shattered and the fuel splashed onto his feet. 

"That thing was worth more than your life, you scum- sucking-pig-dog!" yelled Manion. 

"You're hardly in the position to be putting a value on someone else's life, are you Mister Fogel?" A raven haired beauty dressed in black walked out from behind the peddlers wagon. He recognized the clothes. The shirt was some of the finest silk that he had ever picked up in the orient and the pants and boots were solid English leather. The woman had painted herself up like he had seen many of the performers do in Asia. She wore a black clowns smile over white but somehow, the smile did not touch her eyes. 

"Smile, Mr. Fogel." she said. "You're alone with a beautiful woman and the night is still young." 

It was not a very friendly smile. 

"You know," said the woman. "I love stories. I love to hear them, love to tell them. You've traveled a lot in your day, haven't you?" 

Manion nodded his head. 

"I bet you got quite a few stories to tell. Tales of murder and intrigue. Betrayal, rape, theft. You know, all the good stuff. Tell you what. I'll tell you a story to get us going, and then you're going to tell me a story. So you might want to start thinking about yours right now, because I can become very impatient when I'm waiting for a story." 

She squatted on her heels in front of him. "On my eleventh birthday, a party of diplomats visited my fathers castle and they brought with them a very special sword. It was the finest blade that my father had ever seen. Thin as a wisp, but sharp and strong enough to slice through a solid oak tree. The diplomats said that there was only one of them and since the blade-master who had fashioned it had died, there would never be another. The handle and hilt were very ornate, laid with precious stones and pure gold. It was priceless. 

That was the first time I ever saw you, Manion Fogel. You were much younger then." She poked his plentiful belly with a stick. "A good deal lighter, too, if I remember correctly. You were in the city peddling your goods and my father had asked you to come to the castle so that he could see some of your fine silk. So you were there when the Asian diplomats presented the samurai sword to my father. 

Though the sword was priceless, you seemed to have thought that you could put a value on it. That night, you broke into the castle and tried to steal the sword. You were caught and the only thing that saved you from the gallows was that my father believed that a man's life, no matter how pathetic, was worth more than any sword. He exiled you from the country and you were told that if you ever returned, you would spend the rest of your life rotting away in a dungeon. Obviously, you didn't share my fathers opinion on the value of a man's life. A year ago you started a war between us and Asia, forcing my father to raise an army and ride east leaving his own country open to invasion. I suspect that you had some sort of deal with the invaders. Now, I want you to tell me a story. About how a man could cause the deaths of thousands, just for a sword. And most important, I want to know where the sword is now." 

Manion let out a deep breath, as if something had just become very clear to him. "You're dead. I saw you die." 

"Yes, peddler. I am dead. The sword. Where is it?" 

The peddler slumped against the tree. "Please don't kill me. I've never killed anyone." 

"You can be a killer, Fogel and never spill a drop of blood. Where is the sword?" 

The man weeped and indicated the wagon with a nod of his head. "Underneath. In a case by the axel." 

She walked over and crouched next to the wagon. It took her a moment, but she found the box. She pulled it out and set it on the ground. The sword was inside, wrapped in clean white linen. There was also a belt and a sheath for it. She pulled them out of the case and strapped the belt around her waist. 

As she walked back toward Fogel, she unwrapped the sword. The man lashed out her with his feet, trying to keep her at bay. She came to a stop in front of him, just out of his reach. "Do you know how my daughter died, Mr. Fogel?" 

He whimpered in the negative. 

"She was ripped apart by their dogs. Have you got any idea how that might feel?" 

Suddenly there were shadows moving around in the woods surrounding them. Shifting shades of black shaped like wolves. The crow jumped into the air and flew off through the forest. The woman turned to follow it. 

"Wait! You can't leave me here! The wolves!" Manion screamed. "Your father wouldn't even kill me." 

She stopped and turned back to him. "It's not about a sword anymore." she said. "People are dead and people are dying. My son and my daughter are dead. How much were their lives worth, peddler?" 

She turned and walked away as the wolves rushed into the campsite. The peddler shrieked as they tore into him. It was a while until the forest was quiet again. 

The crow led her north. She wasn't worried about the wolves. The crow had assured her that they would catch up with them later, once they had cleaned Fogels carcass. Her path took her up through the valley. There were villages and townships along the way, some of them were scarcely populated, others were abandoned altogether. As she walked through these, she could feel eyes on her. Several times she had turned to see someone scurrying behind a building. No one came out to speak to her. 

Although she did not know it, there were already rumors racing ahead of her and spreading like wildfire across the country. Some said that she was the reaper, here to collect the souls of all those who had died in the year. A few had even gone so far as to suggest that their good queen Lynn had returned from her watery grave to drive these infidels from the land. 

Dawn of the first day after her resurrection found Lynn on a snow covered plain sixty miles south of Lydia. A band of soldier's also found her there. The group was made up of twelve mounted men and a hawker on foot. It was the hawk that led them to her, completely by accident. The hawker had been showing them how the bird hunted and it had given chase to a crow. The Crow. 

The hawk had dived at the crow and as soon as it's claws had made contact, the attacker had gone limp and fallen to the ground, apparently the victim of a sudden heart-attack. The crow had flown away unscathed and had come to rest on the shoulder of a woman walking on the plain. 

All of the men laughed at the hawker and his dead bird except for one, a man named Stull. He watched the woman from across the plain with cold eyes. Stull had the look of a bruiser about him. Thick knotted muscles, scarred knuckles, the broken nose. Scars criss-crossed his face and arms, mementoes of a hundred skirmishes. 

Something about a woman wanderingout here, alone, seemed very odd to him. He goaded his horse forward, leaving the other men to harass the hawkless hawker. The horse kicked up snow as it broke into a run and the crunch of it's hooves on the snow warned the woman that he was charging. She started to run. He leaned out of the saddle so that he could grab her as he rode past and haul her up across the saddle horn. As he closed in on her, she stopped and turned back toward him. 

There was a flash of steel and then she was racing toward him with a sword held out to the side. She held it like she knew how to use it. He grabbed for his own blade, trying to get it out of it's sheathe and still keep his horse under control at the same time. His blade slipped free at the last second and he swung it at the woman. She wasn't there. 

She had disappeared somewhere under the horse and came out the other side as the horse faltered and went down. Stull went over it's head and landed on his face in the snow. A painful shock started at the base of his skull and jolted down his spine. When he stopped rolling he lay on his back with no air in his lungs. Heaving, he got to his feet. 

His horse thrashed in the snow, spurting red blood on the white. It's front legs had been severed at the knees and the bloody ends lay twenty feet behind the animal. His men were riding out to meet him. They shouted and pointed at the tree line. There was a bloody trail leading in that direction. Had she been injured or was the blood just from her sword? He prayed that she would still be alive when he got to her. He ignored the pain in his back and started for the trees. A crow called out from in those woods, taunting him. 

She was smart, he thought. All these low-hanging branches would make riding horses in here impossible. Most of his men were already dismounting and pulling out their various weapons. A couple stayed on their horses and road off to cut the woman off when she came out the other side of the forest. 

The trees grew so close together that very little light got through but by what there was, he could tell that no snow had fallen in here. Every step he took was announced with a crackling of breaking twigs. He cringed and cursed every time he took a step. 

The woods seemed to be playing hell with the sound. He could have sworn that he heard a footstep behind him, but then there was the sound of movement in front of him. He spun to and fro, trying to discern just where the woman was. There was a rasp of metal off to his left and a grunt of pain. 

"Who was that?" he called out. Suddenly the woods were closing in on him and a flood of panic sank into his stomach. 

"I'm sorry," a voice behind him said. "I'm afraid that I didn't get his name. He smelled of piss and ale if that's any help." 

He spun to defend himself, but she was to his left all of a sudden. As her sword sliced through his neck he thought, how can she be so quiet? 

Lynn raced through the forest, thinking, "God, I almost feel alive!" The crow cawed behind her, urging her on. A younger man stepped out from behind a tree, directly in front of her. He was very young. She almost let him live. "Grease him." said the crow. "He likes to rape children." Lynn dragged her blade across his mid-section as she ran past. He fell in two pieces. 

She led the chase on through the forest and soon the trees began to thin out. The ground began to slope in front of her and the snow was deeper here. She heard a shout and she turned to see a man with a cross-bow come racing out of the woods behind her. He jerked the stock to his shoulder and fired at her. The bolt caught her in the middle of the chest and threw her backward into a tree. As more men burst out of the woods, she discovered that she was pinned to the tree. The man with the crossbow had reloaded and was running toward her. She shoved against the arrow and felt it slide the rest of the way through her body. Her closest attacker was the man with the cross bow. Lynn lunged at him and grabbed the end of the weapon. She wrenched it up under his own chin and jammed down on the trigger. His head snapped back as the bolt tore through the top of his skull. 

There was a knife in the man's belt and she grabbed it as his body fell to the ground. A split second later the next man was upon her. He carried a wicked looking half-moon axe and his face was flushed from the chase. He raised the axe over his head and she drove the knife into his exposed gut. Using the knife as a lever she picked him up off of the ground and slammed him onto his back. For good measure, she kicked the toe of her boot through the side of his head. She heard the pounding of hooves and three riders came around the tree line beating their mounts in her direction. The knife came out of her victims chest with a wrench and a spray of blood. The first rider tried to swerve out of the way as she heaved the blade at him, but he was not quick enough. The heavy steel dagger caught him in the chest with enough force to pick him up out of his saddle and seat him unceremoniously in the snow. He still had a very surprised look on his face when the second rider trampled him under hoof. 

The first rider's horse bolted past her and she snatched ahold of it's flailing reins. She tugged it back in the other direction, directly in to the path of her charging attacker. The horses piled into each other and the man, the woman, and the two animals went down in a thrashing heap. The horses struggled to their feet, stepping on and crushing the two people. Snorting and tossing their heads, the two ran down the slope. The man was dragging his twisted and broken body along the ground when Lynn got to her feet. The third and final rider had stopped a ways back and had watched the whole scene in horror. To Lynn, the man on the horse seemed very familiar. His face provoked a name. Elric. 

She knew him, he was... 

"What's the password, Elric?" 

Painful memories blasted through her head. Flashing scenes of stinking, panting men. 

"What's the password, Elric?" "I ain't never fucked a queen before!" the young man before her had replied. Then the guards had laughed uproariously and pounded the boy on the back. 

"That's right!" they had said. "You won't ever be able to say that again." And then they had opened the tent flap, allowing the boy to come inside and take his turn. 

Lynn began to walk toward the young man on the horse. There was something about her the beast didn't like, and it tried to shy away. The boy kept control of the animal and turned to face the woman, his knuckles white on his sword handle. The horse snorted in fear and started to crab-step away from Lynn as she got closer. 

"Tell me something, Elric." she said. "Have you ever fucked a queen before?" 

The boy's face drained white as recognition dawned on his face. 

"Oh, shit." He let off on the reins and the horse took this as his cue to get the hell away from this woman. It spun around and bolted down the slope and into the valley. The boy turned in his saddle to stare at her as he rode out of sight. 

The crow dropped to the ground beside her. "He rides to Lydia." it said. 

"Good." said Lynn. "I want them to know that I am coming. After she had wiped off her sword and picked what weapons she wanted off of the dead, she set off once again for Lydia. She decided to keep all the knives and daggers she could find and the cross bow. As she walked, the crow talked to her. And sometimes she talked back to it. 

"We can't have you hesitating like you did back there, Lynn. The only thing that keeps you alive is your need to set things right. You have to remember what these animals did to Heather. God knows what they did to Todd." 

Tears appeared in Lynns eyes. "It hurts to remember." 

"I know. Try remembering a happier time." 

She thought of her eleventh birthday. The day her father had gotten the sword. She had been so afraid that in all the hustle and bustle of the councils her father might have forgotten her birthday. Not that he ever had. Even though her mother had died on the day of her birth, her father had always managed to turn the day into a celebration. The very thought of her birth must have been murder on him. She never knew what the gift was going to be each year. Everyone else got her ordinary gifts, dresses and dolls and that sort of thing. Not her father. One year he had gotten her a full grown horse that stood only two feet tall. It roamed the halls of the castle like a pet dog. Another year she had awoken to find her room lined with bookshelves, holding a thousand volumes of fairy tales and books on magic and science. 

So she really didn't have a reason to worry. At six o'clock he came up to her room and said, "It's time to go, Lynn." She had leapt off of her bed and into his arms. She had rode him piggy back all the way down to the main hall. The room was full when they went in. All of her family was there and so were the Asian diplomats. All the surrounding lords and barons had also showed up for the festivities. When she had come in, she had noticed a large stage at the end of the hall and her father led her to it and seated her on a plush carpet on the floor. All of her friends were already sitting there cross legged, on the carpet. The lamps were all extinguished and the room was thrown in darkness. The curtains of the stage were pulled back and a pale light illuminated a miniature landscape. 

The scene depicted a farm and the little farmhouse looked like one of the buildings her father had described to her on his return from Asia. A little farmer, who stood about twelve inches tall was out in the little garden, hoeing. Lynn could see little strings going from the little man's arms and legs up behind the curtains, but the man's movements were so real, it seemed as if he were alive. Upon the man's back he carried a sword. He was a samurai, Lynn guessed. That was the nature of the tale. There was very little narration, all the details of the story were simple and easy to pick up. The young man was a very good samurai but instead of using his skills to become rich and famous, he chose to live on his farm with his wife that he loved more than life. 

Even though he did not run around proclaiming his skill as a samurai, the word got around and he was always being stopped from his farming to fight a duel. He never knew when someone would arrive and challenge him, forcing him to throw down his hoe, pull his sword and fight someone who had every intention of taking his head. Though he never lost a fight, he never killed an opponent. More often than not, once that the samurai had disarmed his attacker, he would invite them to eat dinner with him and his wife, just to show them that there were no hard feelings. And though none of the defeated ones ever returned to challenge him again, they spread the word and more of them would come. 

Now, you can't have the kind of skill that the samurai showed without attracting the wrong kind of attention from one deity or another. And as it happens it was one of the biggie's that noticed. Mortania, the goddess of death. She became so intrigued by this young man who was so skilled in the art of death dealing, yet he never killed. As far as she knew, he had never even spilled blood. She would spend hours every day in the form of a raven, watching him. 

The problem was that Mortania had a husband who leaned a bit to the violent side. He was the god of war. There were many rumors being passed around up on the mountain about Mortania and how she had become infatuated with a mortal. Before long he started to suspect that there was a lot more to these rumors than he originally thought. He felt that he should investigate. 

So, he took the form of a human so that his wife would not recognize him and sought out the mortal. He found the man in his garden, weeding it. The thought that his wife was in love with this lowly mortal infuriated him. He pulled a sword and challenged the samurai. 

The young man was very confused at his assailant's anger, but did his best to fend off the assaults. Soon he realised that this challenger was not like the others. He was very good. Perhaps better than himself. He found himself worrying less about disarming his opponent and more about keeping his opponent from taking off his head. 

The battle went on for hours and the samurai found himself growing weary while the man he dueled seemed like he hadn't even broken a sweat. Then the moment came, just when the samurai had thought that he had fought his last duel. The God made a mistake and swung his sword just a little bit too high, leaving the samurai just enough space to slash his sword under and cut off his enemies hand. The appendage had fallen to the ground, still grasping the sword. 

Enraged at being defeated, the god shrugged off his human disguise and for the first time revealed himself to the samurai. He grabbed the mortal in his massive paw and cuffed him like you would do to a cat. The man was instantly rendered unconscious and went limp in the god's hand. 

At that moment the samurai's wife had come running out of the little cottage, screaming for the god to stop. The raging deity turned on the woman and yelled, "Don't you think I recognize you in that disguise, Mortania?" He back handed the woman and sent her smashing into the house. She fell to the ground and lay very still. The sight of that tangled and broken body must have struck a nerve somewhere in the god's mind, for he stopped his raging and looked at the mangled body in his hand. The samurai was quite dead. The war god dropped the mortal's remains and began to walk down the mountain, leaving the farm alone save for two dead bodies and a raven. Driven mad with shame that he had been defeated by a mortal, the god began to walk faster and his strides got longer. He walked right through towns and countries, and every where he went, conflict broke out. 

Wives fought their husbands, neighbors went to blows with neighbors, diplomats suddenly drew daggers and stabbed each other to death. Armies began to grow, but there were even fights within the armies, making it difficult for the leaders to even pull together any decent battle strategies. Battles broke down into blood baths, with no clear winners and losers. A time of madness had come upon the earth. 

A year passed and it seemed like the wars would never end. Mortania spent all her time wandering the earth, gathering the souls of the dead, carrying with her the guilt of being the cause of all this carnage. Her estranged husband was still making his way through out the earth, starting strife wherever war had not reached yet. He would not be happy until the earth lay in ruins and the last two mortals came together on a battle field and pounded each others brains out with stones. 

All of the other gods were too afraid to face War, so they hid away in their palaces and castles and made excuses when Mortania came to secure their aide in stopping the mad god's rampage. 

Finally, just when it seemed the madness would never end, she devised a plan. There had been one who had stood up and fought her husband and he had won, too. The samurai. Her husband had been forced to take his god form to kill the young man. 

She went back to the little farm, back to where what remained of the samurai lay and found his skull. She lifted it to her lips and breathed the samurai's soul back into him. The mortal's remains rejuvenated, flesh and blood had grown back to cover bone, muscle had grown under the skin restoring the samurai to his former physical self. 

The man had been very disoriented, and he was still not sure of how he had died and why. Mortania told him. Told him of how the god had murdered him and his wife and in the time since his death, he had caused war and strife through out the world to the point that mankind was on the verge of wiping itself out. 

She gave the samurai powers with which he could fight her husband in his god form. So long as she was alive, the samurai could not be killed. There was no wound that could be given to him that could not be instantly healed. She gave him the sword that the god had lost when the samurai had taken his hand. 

Before the samurai left to fight War, he buried his wife's bones and he put on the ritualistic face paint of his samurai family, a clown's mask. 

Mortania took the from of a raven and led the samurai off to find her husband. He was not hard to find, every where he went he left a trail of death and destruction and the battles left in his wake were always the most intense. The kind that nobody walked away from. Their path wound it's way through valleys, across rivers, through burned out cities and crumbling castles. Eventually, it led to a rugged mountain top where the god had stopped to watch the devastation he had caused. 

As the samurai approached, the god recognized the raven for his wife. "Hello, Mortania. Have you come to stop me?" 

"I have brought mankind's champion to challenge you." The god gave the samurai the once over and said, "Did you have to resort to resurrecting a dead mortal to stop me? I'm flattered that you still find me that dangerous." 

"I guess I'm just a sucker for a good love story." said the Raven. 

The man came close and pulled his sword. "Stand," he told the god. "Your time is at an end." 

The god stood and he more than doubled the samurai's height. Yet the man did not back down. Instead, he raised his sword. The god clenched his hands together to form a club and raised them to bring them down on the samurai's head. 

The man stepped out of the way as the war god swung and shoved his enchanted blade through the god's gut. He pulled it out and stepped back as the god doubled over in pain. Again the samurai raised his sword and took a fighting stance. War stumbled toward him and tried to grab the man in his massive hands. The samurai avoided his hands and opened up the god's throat with a slash. 

The god fell to his knees. "Who are you, mortal, that you can defeat me in this way?" "It sickens me," said the samurai. "That you never learned my name before you destroyed my life." He raised his sword for a final time and brought it down on the god's neck and thus, beheaded him. 

Mortania took her human form and stood next to the samurai. "You have done well this day, warrior. Skill such as yours should not be wasted in death. Do you desire to become a god, and perhaps, to marry me?" 

The samurai stared at her, aghast. "No. I want you to take me back to my wife and let me rest in peace with her." 

"Am I not beautiful?" she asked. "Does the thought of being immortal not interest you?" 

"No. I am a dead man walking. My very flesh crawls at the thought of what I am. I have set the wrongs right and earned my rest. I ask that you grant it." 

"Very well," said the death goddess and she lead him home to die. 

The tiny stage had dimmed while Lynn and the rest of the audience had sat awestruck. Her father's gift that year had proved to be as different and delightful as ever. The feast had been grand and at the end of the evening, her father helped her hand out gifts to all the children who had attended the celebration. 

He kept his final gift for her back until he put her to bed that night. It was the samurai puppet from the play, with it's tiny sword and painted smile. 

Thinking back on that day, Lynn could have sworn she felt a tear running down her cheek. 

The sun was setting on Lydia, when Elric rode his sweat lathered horse through the gates and straight on to the palace. The thugs and the street trash quickly got out of his way as he guided his panting horse through the alleys and they threw curses at his back once he had passed. They knew better than to curse one of Ashborn's men straight to his face. Not unless they wanted a job as a sign post to Lydia. 

The boy pulled his horse to a halt in front of the palace gates and slid out of the saddle. The horse's belly heaved and it's over strained leg muscles quivered. One of the palace's stable masters gave the boy a nasty look as he came out to get the horse, muttering something like, "The damn boy has rode this horse to death." Indeed, the stallion did not seem to be doing very well. Holding his sword steady as he ran, he made his way up the walk and into the palace. The siege on Lydia had been very hard on the palace. It's many tapestries had either been ripped or burned off of the walls and the priceless stained glass windows had been shattered and reduced to shards. The main hall, where royalty and dignitaries had once been greeted was now a place for drunken soldiers to come to pass out. The fountain that had once sported an angel was now used for a place to empty your bladder. The angel's wings had been busted off and her head had been replaced with a rotting human skull. A collection of books that had been found in one of the upstairs bedrooms were being used to maintain a fire in one corner of the hall. Fifteen or so men gathered there throwing dice. 

A few of the men gave Elric the eye as he passed and he acknowledged them with a nod. They returned their attentions to the game. Beyond the main hall was the councils chambers and this was where Ashborn would be. 

Elric bowed his head as he entered the room. The room was dark, the only light was that that came from around the blankets hung over the windows. If Ashborn was here, Elric could not see him. 

"Are you here, lord?" His voice echoed in the quiet. 

He jumped at the touch of steel on his throat as a voice behind him said "I'm here. Who are you, boy?" 

"I'm Elric, sir. One of your soldiers." 

"Why are you in my chambers, Elric?" 

"I have dire news, sir. One of your warbands was wiped out 

today." 

"An uprising?" 

"No, sir." he swallowed before he continued. "It was the Queen, sir. Her ghost, I mean. I mean, I don't know, sir." Ashborn was very quiet, and it made the boy nervous. "It was like they couldn't kill her. I mean, she got trampled by a horse and then she just got right back up." 

The knife was pulled away from his throat and he breathed a sigh of relief. When next he spoke, Ashborn was somewhere in front of him. "Go find my generals, boy and be quick about it." 

Elric made for the door but Ashborn spoke again. "How did you come to still be alive." 

Without an ounce of shame the boy said, "I ran for my life, sir." 

Ashborn Wicklander watched the boy leave the darkness of the room and then turned to light a candle. It's weak cand- descence revealed the scarred face of a man in his early thirties. One particularly nasty scar wound up the side of his face and up through his hair. His hair was short, just short enough that an opponent couldn't grab a handful of it and though the man was only in his thirties, there were already flecks of grey in it. Ashborn was just over six foot tall and though he wasn't a massive man, he still had the wiry look of a scrapper about him. At any rate, he looked like he knew how to use the double edged sword that hung at his hip. 

"So my devil finally shows her face." he whispered to the candle. The meager flame shied from his breath as he let out a sigh. His father must be laughing at him in hell right now. 

Ashborn was born in the high crags and canyons of Rodany into a tribe of people who had been bandits and killers for time remembered. His people had never had anything that they had not stolen from someone else. Indeed, even some of the tribe members had been stolen as children to bring new blood into the family. Cruelty and savagery were qualities that parents looked for in their children, even encouraged. The children were taught meanness and brutality from the cradle by way of abuse and degradation. And just like a dog who's been kicked to many times, eventually they died or they learned how to bite back. 

At the age of twelve Ashborn bit back in a big way when he grabbed one of the mastiff dogs that hung around the village by the back legs and used it to beat his father to death. And thus the title of chief had been passed on to him. And under his banner the tribe enjoyed a new age of thievery. Not only did Ashborn have his inherited nasty streak, he also exhibited the ability to think out a situation, to see it from all side and decide on the best possible strategy. Eventually, he united all of the bandit tribes of the hills either by coercion or by simply pounding them into submission. 

And when they had reduced Rodany to ashes, they had turned their sights to the greener pastures of the south. Like locusts, they had moved south, burning , stealing or raping anything in their path. Just north of the border they had come across the traveling merchant. Ashborn's first instinct was to shove a twelve foot spike through him and hang him up to dry, but the man convinced them to let him live in return for a way to draw all of Lydia's troops out of the country and into the east. While the plan would take considerably longer than just wading in to a bloodbath, it involved less risk. Besides, if the merchant had not come through, he simply would have killed the man and then invaded the country only six months later than planned. 

The merchant had come through, and much to Ashborn's delight, the king had lead his armies east to some war that the merchant had got going. 

Through all of this he had been so careful to follow the rule. The rule had been passed down from long before his great grandfather's time. It simply stated that every person that he ever killed must not be buried. Instead they were to be impaled on long stakes and hung up for the carrion birds to devour. This had seemed like an odd thing the first time his father had told him about it and when he had asked why, his father had given him the back of his hand and told him something about how it kept the souls of the dead from seeking revenge. The hillfolk were very superstitious and believed it was prudent to take any means necessary to protect their selves from angry ghosts. 

So Ashborn had heeded his father's words and every time he or his men took a life they strung up the body, turning battlefields into grisly forests of impaled victims. Every time except for once. 

And now the bitch was back. He knew that the boy was to scared to be lying to him. He had failed to give the queen a wooden spine and now she was coming for him. 

"Let her come." he said out loud. "And she'll still be alive and kicking when I give her the stake." 

The crow's raspy voice snapped her from reverie. "Steel yourself, girl. It gets ugly just ahead." 

Just over the next rise she found one of the many roads leading into Lydia. Running along it's edges were some kind of strange looking poles or trees. But as she got closer, she came to realise why the crow had warned her. They weren't trees. They were impaled men, women, and children. 

"There must be thousands," she whispered. She turned to the crow. "Did they leave anyone alive?" 

"Aye," said the crow. "There are those who live in hiding, and there are those who live as slaves to the impaler. There are those who would fight at your side, Lynn." 

"Where are they?" asked Lynn. 

"They watch from the forest and the hills, trying to decide if you are friend or foe. They're scared and they've got good reason to be. Your fight with the soldiers did a lot for their courage, I might add." 

She started down the hill toward the road. The ghastly road markers gaped at her accusingly, as if to say, "What have you done for me lately, my Queen?" She looked at each tortured face as she walked past it, noticed how the long poles were shoved through abdomens and backs. The cold had preserved the body's perfectly, keeping the evidence of her failure intact so that she might witness it. She looked for familiar faces in the multitude, though she knew that she could not bear it if she found one. Mostly, she looked for her son Todd. 

The was the worst kind of death. Not only were these people murdered viciously, they were not even given a proper burial. Even in death, they were denied rest or peace. They hung in mute witness to the conquerer's atrocities. She suddenly felt very weak and fell to her knees in the snow. "Why did you bring me back, Crow?" She moaned. "What can I do in the face of all this. There are so many dead, It's to late to do anything." She sobbed in grief and waved her hands at the dead around her. "What can I do?!" 

"You can stop it, Lynn. You can purge this evil from your land. Make sure no one else has to die like this." 

She turned away from the crow and said "I can't do this. My father left these people in my care, and I've failed him. Why did he leave me here? Didn't he know I wasn't strong enough." 

"Your were strong, Lynn. It was just that the man was too big, too strong. It's not your fault, girl. You stood up to that bastard, and in the end you didn't let him put a stake through you . I think your father would have been proud of you." 

"Ma'am?" a voice above her said. "It's not safe for a woman to be to out here in the open, all alone." 

She looked up to see a man standing over her. He took a couple steps back at the sight of the make-up on her face. The man looked to be in his late forties and apparently had not been eating very well. A scraggly beard covered the lower half of his gaunt face. There was more white than red in his stubble. "My god," he said. "it is you." 

More people were coming out of the nearby woods, hesitantly. "It's the queen." she heard more than one of them say. 

The man in front of her said, "We had all heard that you were killed, my Lady. How is it that you came to escape?" "I didn't escape. And don't call me your Lady. I am no longer your queen, sir. A queen would have long since put a stop to this madness." She indicated the impaled bodies with a wave of her hand. 

"Be you a ghost, ma'am?" 

She shrugged. "I don't know what I am. I've been surviving through things that should have killed me every since I awoke last night. She fingered the hole in her shirt where she had been shot with the cross-bow. "Are you all that's left of the good people of Lydia?" 

"No, ma'am. We've been hearing rumors about you all day. Most of them were horse shit, no doubt. I heard you got in a little spat with some of Ashborn's men this morning." 

"I only wish that I had had more time to spend with each of them." she said bitterly. 

"I'm Braled." said the man. "And it's time for us to get off of the road before one of Ashborns warbands comes along and slaughters the lot of us. We've got a camp nearby and your welcome to share our fire." 

The idea of a warm fire was very appealing to her. So was the idea of spending some time back among the living. 

"Lead the way." she said and followed the little band into the woods. 

There were more than sixty people waiting back at the encampment and more than a few of them were uncomfortable with having their dead queen visit them. She even saw some of them forking the sign of evil at her when they thought she wasn't watching. Braled lead her to the fire and offered her bread. She discovered that the sight of food repulsed her, inspiring in her a wave of nausea. She waved aside the food with a forced smile. The earned some strange looks from those gathered around her. People didn't refuse food when it was offered in these times. 

She ignored their stares and held her pale hands out to the fire, enjoying its warmth. She could feel the heat spread up her fingertips and into her arms, and it felt good. It reminded her of sitting on her father's lap, as a child, in front of the fire place as he read to her. Braled sat across the fire from her, looking like he had a thousand questions to ask but was scared of what the answers might be. He studied her, trying to puzzle out how she could have come back from the dead. 

"Are you of the devil, Ma'am?" he asked. 

"No, sir." she said. She felt it was best that she didn't tell them that she didn't think she was about the Lord's business, either. Braled seemed to relax once he heard that he didn't have Satan's soldier sitting at his campfire. 

"Why does the bird follow you every where?" 

"It was the crow that brought me back. When I was young, I read in a book that certain types of birds could take souls back and forth from the land of the dead. Storks, cranes, sparrows, and ravens and crows." 

Braled smiled. "When I asked my dad where babies came from he said that the stork brought them." This earned him a couple of chuckles from those gathered around. "So why did the crow bring you back? What are you plannin' on doin'?" 

"I'm headed for Lydia, Braled, and I intend to take some heads and do some housecleaning." Many of those who had been wary before crowded closer around the fire. 

Braled whistled through his teeth. "Lydia's pretty crowded with bad types these days. How are you planning on getting in there?" 

"I'm going through the front gates, just like I always have." 

"Sneaky." 

For a moment, the smile on her lips almost looked real. "My family has always been the straight forward type." 

"Aye, I don't remember your father to be the beat around the bush type. I heard that he once told the king of Florin that he smelled unpleasant and that he would have to bathe before your father would sit down to discuss trading with him." 

Lynn remembered how the other members of the council had gasped at her father's comment and she could not help but chuckle. There was never a more fair man than her father, but he demanded excellence of those he worked with. And he must have had a spine of iron, the way he used to step into a squabble between two land barons and stare them into the floor. Anyone who worked for him would have gladly given their life for him, just as he would have given his for his country. She suspected that in the end, he did give all for his kingdom. She sat there by the fire thinking about her fathers strength and his tenderness, and though she was smiling, a tear rolled down her cheek. 

"Well, it been a long day for us, my Queen, and I fear that we shall have to retire very soon if we are to accompany you the rest of the way to Lydia tomorrow." 

Wide-eyed, she looked at the others standing around. "You don't have to come with me. I couldn't stand the thought of even more of my country men's blood on my hands." 

One of the men behind Braled spoke and said, "I, for one, would rather die at the side of my Queen than to starve to death slowly out here." 

The others murmured in agreement and slapped the man on the back. Braled reached over the fire and put his hand over Lynn's. "If you won't let us have the honor of fighting at your side, then we'll just have to follow you and annoyingly kill anyone you try to fight." 

"It seems I have no choice." she said. "I hope Ashborn enjoys his last restful night in my father's house." 

Ashborn wasn't having a restful night. He stood in the middle of the throne room with his generals, who at the moment thought that he had lost what little there was left of his sanity. He had been babbling for an hour about some old family legend about a avenging ghost and how another one was coming for him. He waved his arms in the air and yelled, "Did you not hear me? The queen of this country has returned from her grave and is at that this moment coming this way. And when she gets here she is going to be one pissed off little bitch. My father used to tell me about how one of my ancestors fought one of these things and they are damn near impossible to kill. The way my dad put it, they had to cut off it's head and run a stake through it before it finally quit fighting." 

Brandulph, one of the few men who were unafraid to speak to him, said, "Look, Ashborn, all we got to go on right now is the word of a scared boy. It's a little early to start believing that some phantom bitch is coming for you." Ashborn laughed at him. "You don't get it do you? She be just coming after me. She be here for all of us. I mean, some of you had your turn with her in the tent. Don't you think she going to be a little angry about that?" Some of the other generals looked a little bit uncomfortable. "What do you want us to do?" 

"I want you to get ready for an invasion. I want guards at all the gates to the city and and all the entrances to the castle." "Christ, Ashborn." said Gareth. "We can't pull off men to guard the castle just because some stupid boy thinks he saw a woman that we all watched die a year ago. Will you listen to yourse-" 

Ashborn's fist caught him in the jaw and sent Gareth and his chair sprawling across the floor. Suddenly there was a dagger in Ashborn's hand and an instant later it was at Gareth's quivering Adam's apple. 

"You stupid ass!" he spit down into the man's face. "You will put guards around this palace, and you will join them in keeping out any unwelcome visitors. And if she doesn't kill you, I will." 

Gareth quickly nodded in agreement and Ashborn stood up off of him. "Now, I want the rest of you to get the fuck out of here. I've got to think." 

Thankful for the opportunity, his generals scrambled to their feet and made for the door. When they had left the room, Ashborn stood with head hanging down, trying to regain composure. With a grunt of rage he spun and threw his dagger at the throne at the end of the room. It's steel blade shattered against the hard granite. 

The dead dream. Lynn wasn't even aware that they could sleep, but here she was, resting quietly in the arms of slumber. After the others had gone off to their beds, Lynn had sat by the fire, watching the flames consume the wood and she wondered if somehow this was a metaphor for what she had become. Had she let the fire of her rage and hatred consume her? Would she eventually just burn out? Would she go out with a roaring blast or a quietly fading puff of smoke? 

Before she knew it she was alive and she was queen again. Her babies were still breathing, so full of life that it seemed that they would never die. And there was a disease spreading through out the land. Every day it got closer to Lydia and she knew it was only a matter of hours before the pestilence swallowed the country whole. There were an endless stream of scouts coming in to see Lynn, keeping her informed of the invaders progress. 

Not that there was much that she could do. Almost all of Lydia's military might had gone with her father to the war in Asia. What was left was nowhere near what they needed to even put up a decent fight. Her only hope was in making sure that her people had time to escape to the south and she was using what soldiers she had to give them that time. The last of the scouts had come to the palace on foot to let her know that the invaders had reached the gates of the city. It was time for her and her family to be leaving. She had done what 

she could and could only pray that it was enough. Her children had been dressed in their most sensible riding clothes since early that morning and she had seen to it that there were horses saddled down in the coral so that they could be riding at a moments notice. The time had come and she had sent Todd and Heather down to the stables to wait for her while she ran to get their father. 

Lewis, Lynn's husband, was in the throne room, sprawled out in her father's throne with a half empty bottle of wine in his hand and her father's samurai sword laying across his lap. There were more bottles on the floor around his feet. He must have opened up the palace's wine cellar and helped himself. Lynn strode into the room and to the foot of the throne. 

"It's time to go, Lewis. The castle will fall within the 7th hour and we need to be out of here. The children are waiting in the stables." 

"I'm not going anywhere." Lewis had said in a drunken slur. "Maybe I didn't have what it takes to pitch a battle against these filthy sons of bitches, but I'll be damned if I'm going to run from them." 

"It's a little late for that kind of thing, Lewis. What we need to do now is get out of the city. No one will gain anything if you stay here." 

Lewis chuckled to himself and took another drink from the bottle. "Did you ever wonder why your father arranged our marriage? I mean, what could he have possibly expected out of me as a king? I'm weak, I go to tears in the face of conflict. Hell, I don't even know how to use this thing." He fingered the sword's handle and sniffed back a tear. 

"Maybe it's because he didn't want to leave his country in the hands of some hot head who would go to blows every time some fool gave him a slight." 

"I don't think that's it, Lynn. I think it was because he knew how strong you were. I think he wanted you to have a weak man so that when it came time for you to make hard decisions you wouldn't have hard headed jack-ass getting in your way. The people know it, too. They all think of you as the queen, but I've never heard any mention of King Lewis." 

To Lynn, these words rang true. The night before her father was to go off to war he had taken her up onto one of the palace's many terraces so that he could talk to her alone. He had told her that even though Lewis was officially the king, he was leaving the kingdom in his daughter's capable hands. Heart threatening to just up and quit on her, she had realized that her father was trying to tell her good-bye. He didn't expect to come back from this conflict. "You make it sound like you're not coming back." she had said. 

He had held her hand and said, "I'm going to try, Dear, but it doesn't look like diplomacy is going to resolve this little fight. Something or someone has got the Asian's looking for a fight. I'm an old man and I don't think I can take those long campaigns like I could when I was younger." She had started to cry, but he hadn't let her. "The time for that kind of thing is over, Lynn. You've got a country to think of now. The Kingdom always comes first, before family, before friends. Remember, we're here to serve the people, not the other way around." 

Thought her heart was breaking, she hadn't dared let one tear out. 

The sound of conflict pulled their attention to the window. "We have to leave." she said and put her hand over his. "I have to get the children out of here." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "You're a good, peace loving man, Lewis. You don't have to prove anything to anybody." 

"Maybe It's something that I have to prove to myself, Lynn." 

She nodded and let go of his hand. "And just before the sun set, the flower bloomed." 

He gave her a weak smile and once again took another drink of his courage potion. She turned and walked to the door. Just before she crossed the threshold he stopped her by calling her name. She turned and said, "Yes?" 

"Did you ever really love me?" 

She walked back over toward him and placed a kiss on his forehead. "Remember the night that Todd was born and the midwife tried to push you out of the room? You shoved past her and told her that you weren't going anywhere. You stayed there until Todd was born and you took him in your arms and you cried. I loved you then, Lewis. I loved you like I've never loved another." 

"Your father was a wise man, Lynn. Only a woman as strong as you could have sat on a throne this hard." 

She had one last look at the man she might have loved once and then she left the room. 

Earlier in the day, she had traded in her queenly gown for some of Lewis' fur and leather riding clothes. On her back hung a sword that she had selected from the palace armory. It was light weight and not so long as to become cumbersome in a close quarters combat situation. Even dressed in crude, men's clothes she still carried herself with the dignity that marked her of royalty. 

Her path took her down stairwells and into the stables, where her children waited for her. Heather looked as if she was about to cry, her fear was plain on her face.She was too young to understand what was going on, but the way everyone was acting had her scared. The stable master of held out the reigns to her stallion and she accepted them with what she hoped was a brave smile. 

"If your Lady approves, I need to be going." 

"Of course, Harrel. We'll be right behind you." 

The man pulled himself up into his own saddle and rode out of the stable. 

"Into your saddle, Todd. We've got to be away." She made sure his feet were securely in the stirrups once he was in the seat and then turned to mount her own horse. Todd was twelve, old enough to ride on his own, but little Heather was going to have to ride with her mother. She seated the girl on the saddle in front of her and pulled her cloak forward to cover her. It was snowing and it would be night soon. 

She turned to her son and said, "Ready?" 

He nodded and she nudged her horse out the door. They rode south, sticking to the valley, but avoiding the main roads. She didn't push the horses to a run but she kept them at a nice ground eating gallop. It would do them no good if they ran the poor beasts into the ground. 

Night did in fact come very quickly, but Lynn did not stop. She needed to put a lot more miles between herself and her pursuers. In the early hours, fog set in in the lower valleys, making it hard for her to find her way. Before long she was forced to stop. She found them a thick copse of trees that they could hide the horses in and she and the children bundled together in hopes that they could keep warm. By this time, she had been awake for almost thirty- six hours straight and before she knew it, sleep had over taken her. 

The sounds of shouts and the barks of dogs had awoken her the next morning. The sun had already attained some height in the sky. Far more tired than she had realised, she had slept past sunrise, much longer than she had intended. In those couple hours of rest, she had lost the little bit of a lead that she had gained. 

Frantically signaling her children to be quiet, they had climbed on to their mounts and she had rode up into the hills. The sounds of the dog's barking were not get any quieter, she realized after a while. They were tracking her. Further more, she thought that the sounds of their barking were coming from several different directions, as if they had split up in hopes of cutting her off somewhere ahead. She tried to steer the horse away from the barking, but it kept changing directions. She began to suspect that they were trying herd her in a specific direction. Some sort of a trap, she supposed. 

She turned her horse and headed straight up hill. Within moments, the sounds of barking moved to directly in front of her. Panic crawled into her gut, turning it to ice. She could hear the dog handlers behind her now. They were urging their dogs on with harsh shouts and from the sounds of it they were also encouraging them with kicks to the ribs and leather straps. 

She waved to Todd, and he rode up next to her. He looked absolutely terrified, but he was trying his best to be brave. She leaned over in her saddle to whisper in his ear. "We're going to head back down-hill now. When we catch sight of them, I want you to stick your spurs into your horse's ribs and ride right through the middle of them. Don't stop for anything. Just keep going right down into the valley and then head directly south." She grabbed him by the chin and forced him to look her in the eyes. "Do not stop for anything. Do you understand me?" He nodded and she let him go. "Follow me." 

She turned the horse down hill and spurred it to as fast as safety would allow, Todd right behind her. A minute later they were upon the trackers. She threw safety to the wind and jammed her spurs into her horse's sides. It bolted forward, scattering the men in front of her. Todd flashed past her, hunched down in his saddle and holding on for dear life. She cringed as one of the soldiers jumped at his horse but Todd gave him a face full of boot and kept going. Her concern for her son distracted her from her own safety andthat of her daughter. One of the hunters mastiffs leaped at her horse and sank it's canines into it's snout. The horse let out a pained shriek and threatened to fall forward. Instead, it squatted back onto it's haunches, shaking it's head. The dog tore loose from the horse's face, taking a good chunk of flesh with it. 

Two more dogs attacked from behind, racing in and latching on to the back of the horse's legs. The hamstrings tore and the whole bunch of them went down. Lynn hit the ground rolling, clutching Heather close to her breasts in an effort to protect her from the fall. She jumped to her feet and turned to run. Two seconds later, another dog slammed into her, throwing her onto her face and sending her sliding down the slick, snow covered slope. Heather slid from her grasp with a scream. White fire tore up Lynn's leg and her vision turned red. She yanked away from the dog on her leg and was on her feet a moment later. She didn't remember pulling it , but there was suddenly a sword in her hand. She hacked at the dog that had bitten her leg, each blow splitting flesh and cracking bone. 

Heather screamed and Lynn spun to her defense. A dog had ran in and grabbed her daughter by the back and was attempting to run with her. Lynn dove at it, aiming her sword at it's spine. Another dog raced in from the left and snapped it's jaws onto Heather. There was a sickening cracking sound and Heather stopped screaming. 

That was when Lynn started. Somewhere deep inside of her, part of Lynn died. The part that cared if she lived or died. A scream of rage belted out of her and the dog's scattered before her as she came down in the middle of them. Her sword came down on the dog with her daughter and went nearly all the way through it. Yanking the blade out she spun and kicked the other one in the side of the head. It released it's grip on Heather's body and scrambled away from her. Heavy foot steps. Still screaming, Lynn spun toward the hunter behind her. Blood rage or no, Lynn was not a sword's man. Her opponent, however, was. He parried her clumsy blow and cracked her across the skull with the flat of her blade. Blessed blackness closed in. 

"She come around yet? I like mine awake and kicking." 

Another voice said, "Then your getting seconds. It don't matter to me if she's conscious or not, I'm going to get me some." 

The sound of laughter invaded Lynn's aching head. From the few seconds that she could keep her eyes open, she could tell that she was in a tent of some kind. Her clothes lay in a pile of rags next to her. Her crotch burned and her thighs felt sticky. She could not tell if it was blood or something else. 

Somebody said, "What the password?" 

"I ain't never fucked a queen before!" 

More laughter and the tent flap was thrown open and in staggered a cross between a man and an ox. The man in the doorway must have been six-six and three hundred pounds. He reached down and began to undo his britches. Realizing what was going on, Lynn rolled onto her belly and began to drag herself away. The effort nearly made her black out again and she fell forward onto her face. 

Huge hands grabbed a hold of her legs and dragged her back across the dirt. 

Pain. 

"What's the password, Elric?" "I ain't never fucked a Queen before!" 

"That's right! You won't ever be able to say that again!" 

Elric took his turn. 

"Wake up, bitch!" Her ribs cracked from a savage kick and stars and comets exploded before her eyes. Hands grabbed her hair and jerked her upright. She forced her eyes open. 

"That's better." The man before her had a mischievous smile. "Are we awake?" 

The words sounded garbled to Lynn and she searched for meaning in them. The man slapped her across the face. Was that blood she felt trickle down her cheek? The slap brought her to her senses, anyway. She pulled away from him. 

"Don't worry, I want none of your diseased cunt. I wanted to show you something I found." 

She focused on the object in his hand. What was this man doing with her son's cloak? It was a gift from her father for Todd's sixth birthday. Horrified, she realized what it meant. 

"No." she said, her voice a grating rasp. She had been screaming a lot. 

"Afraid so." said the man. He still smiled that smile. 

Funny, he was enjoying himself just as much as every other man that had come in here, and he hadn't even taken off his trousers. 

"Why are you doing this?" she asked. "It's in my blood." he replied. "My people are locusts, your majesty. We don't want to rule the world. We just want to use up one little section of it at a time. Fifteen years from now, you won't even be able to tell we were ever here. That's how we've lived for generations." 

"Yes, but why here? Why Lydia?" She was looking for some kind of reason or sanity were there was none. 

"Your grass was greener." he said. 

Changing the subject, he said "How are my boys treating you? I hope they're showing you a good time. To be perfectly honest, after all of your little encounters today, I wouldn't fuck you with somebody else's cock." 

"Why don't you just kill me?" 

"Oh, yes. You would make a lovely martyr, wouldn't you? Then your people can claim they saw you come back from the dead three days later and build a goddamn cult around you. I don't think so, my dear. The men seem to have taken a liking to you, so we've decided to keep you around for a while. Now don't you worry. My men have been instructed not to do anything to you that might result in your death." 

"Now, if you'll excuse me," he said as he stood up. "I've got quite a few of your country men I have to go impale. Frankly, I could let my men do it, but I kind of like it. It's fun to get your hands dirty every once in a while." Her bile rose in her throat as he left the tent. 

"What's the password?" The guards sounded like they were getting as sick of the joke as she was. 

"Look, just let me through." 

Lynn lay curled up in the back of tent, staring at the doorway. Her eyes were vacant. To the man coming through the door way, she could have been dead. He scratched his groin and unbuckled his belt. Her eyes didn't move as he dropped his pants and walked over to her. Her legs were limp as he rolled her onto her back and situated himself over her. She wasn't dead though, she was warm despite being naked in winter weather. He leaned on to his elbow as he reached down to insert his penis. 

Suddenly, Lynn came to life. Her arm flashed up from her side and she jammed something jagged into the man's neck. He threw his weight on her, trying to roll off. She ripped it out and he caught a glimpse of her her weapon out of the corner of his eye before she drove it up under his chin. She had pulled up a tent peg from one the tent walls. 

He clutched at the blunt end sticking out from his throat, and tried to scream for help. The peg had pinned his tongue over his windpipe and he couldn't draw a breath. She rolled, shoving him off of her. He was helpless to do anything as she stumbled to his pants and his sword belt. She pulled out his broad sword and threw open the tent flap. The guards jumped to their feet as she ran out of the tent and off through the snow. They started after her, pulling out their swords and shouting for help. 

Lynn raced for her life; she wasn't going to let this one chance for escape be wasted. She dodged around soldiers and in and out, around tents. Every muscle in her body screamed with every limping step. The repeated rapes had wore her down and that she was moving at all was a miracle in itself. Soon, she began to realize that her chances of getting away were pretty slim. What hope did she have anyway? She was stark naked in weather that would have her frost bitten in a matter of moment. Still, anything was better than what she was running from. 

A man came rushing out of one of the tents as she ran by. He had been awakened by the commotion that she was causing. He jumped into her path and attempted to grab a hold of her. She drove her sword into his gut. As he fell, she lost her grip on the handle. There was no time to retrieve the sword, so she ran on without it. 

She reached the last of the tents and beyond them stretched a small frozen lake. She turned to see her pursuers closing in on her. She would not go back. She began to limp out onto the ice. 

"You crazy bitch! You're going to fall through." 

Then she heard his voice. The man who had brought her Todd's cloak. "What the fuck is going on?" he shouted at his men. 

"She got away." 

"Then I suggest you go get her." 

Ahead of Lynn, more of Ashborn's men had gone around the lake to cut her off. She was trapped. She would not go back. The phrase passed round and round in her head like a chant and she began to moan to herself. She rapped her arm's around herself and stopped in the middle of the lake, swaying slightly. The men from around the lake shouted at her, taunting her. 

"What the fuck are you going to do now, bitch?" 

"Looks like it's iced pussy tonight, boys." 

There was only one way out of this. Lynn raised her wrist to her mouth and sank her teeth in. Warm blood poured out onto her freezing skin. 

"What's she doing?" 

"I think she's biting herself." 

Ashborn shoved one of his men out onto the ice. "Go get her. Don't come back without her." 

The man inched out onto the ice, conscientious of the popping and cracking beneath his feet. Lynn was gnawing on her other wrist now and blood was pouring on to the ice in a steady stream. Suddenly she turned toward him, her face covered with streaks of blood. 

"Stay back!" she shouted at him. 

He inched another step toward her and she jumped up and came down on the ice hard. The ice beneath his feet groaned and he stopped. 

"Stop it lady. You're going to kill us both." 

For some reason, Lynn found that to be very funny. She began to giggle. Her giggle turned to a laugh so hard that she fell down onto the ice, in the pool of her own blood. She threw back her head and roared with laughter. 

A crack started at where she was sitting and it snaked toward the man standing on the ice. He turned back toward the safety of the shore but it was to late. The ground dropped out from under him and the numbing waters engulfed him. Farther out on the lake, the ice that Lynn was sitting on was coming apart and she began to slide down in to the water. She kept laughing. 

"Get her!" shouted Ashborn. 

The men around him pretended not to hear and stepped away from their angry leader. 

"No!" he screamed. "Get her!" He stepped out onto the ice, determined to go get her himself. His men grabbed him and pulled him to safety as the chunk of ice he had stepped on buckled with a crack. 

Lynn's laughter drowned as she sank beneath the surface. 

"No." Ashborn screamed. The word echoed back and forth across the valley. 

"No!" Lynn shouted as she sat upright next to the fire. 

She looked around, getting her bearings. It all came back then. She was in the rebel camp. She was a walking corpse. 

The crow cawed quietly from the tree above her. "Don't be entertaining any ideas that you're back among the living, Lynn. We won't be here much longer." 

"Are you alright, Ma'am?" 

Lynn turned to see a little girl, no more than six, staring at her. 

"I'm fine. You should be sleeping." 

"You have a smile painted on your face, but you look very sad." 

"I'm sad because such a beautiful little girl as you has to wear a ratty little dress like that." 

The little girl looked down at her dress and said, "I like this dress. My mother made this for me." She sniffed and said, "She's dead." 

"I'm sorry." said Lynn. "She must have loved you very much." 

The girl sobbed and stepped forward to throw her arms around Lynn's neck. Lynn closed her eyes and held her close. She was so warm, so full of life, so much like Heather. The little girl pushed away from her. 

"You're so cold." she said to Lynn. 

"I've been sleeping under a blanket of snow." said Lynn. 

A thin woman in patched cloaks stepped up to the fire. "What are you doing up, Sherry?" she said to the little girl. 

"I was talkin' to the clown lady." said Sherry. 

"Well, why don't you go lay down and go back to sleep?" 

The girl nodded and made her way back to her blankets. After the girl had left, the woman turned back to Lynn and gave her a suspicious glare. These people might accept her as their dead queen back for vengeance, but because she was dead, she was different and therefore they neither understood or trusted her. 

The look that the woman was giving her was perhaps the worst reaction she had received since her resurrection. Woman to woman. It said, "I would have expected this kind of murder and madness from a man. But you're a woman for god's sake! A mother, no less. You've carried life inside you, pushed it out into the world, nursed it, sustained it. If anyone should know the value of life, it's a mother. Yet here you are running around the country side, leaving bodies left and right. Not that much different from the ones you're hunting." 

Lynn looked away from the woman's gaze and said, "I wasn't always like this." 

"None of us were." replied the woman and followed Sherry back to their palates. 

"Isn't it about time that we ended this charade, Lynn?" said the crow. "We've got business that we need to be about." 

"The girl knew that there was something wrong with me, didn't she?" 

"The dead aren't much comfort, I'm afraid." 

Braled awoke with a gentle nudge at his shoulder. He rolled over and Lynn was there. 

"I've got to go." she said. 

He rubbed his eyes and said, "Where to?" 

"Lydia. My time for this world is growing short." 

"If you'll wait, I'll get the men together." 

"Look," she said. "There ain't no way they could keep up with me. I'm going to run all the way there, and get there by tonight." 

"But that's sixty miles!" 

"I don't get tired anymore, Braled. Don't worry, there will still be plenty for you to do when you get there. There are certain people that I'm after and I believe that once I take them out, the rest will be pretty easy to run out of the land." 

"But-" 

"No buts. Your people have done more than enough already. You helped me remember what it was like to be alive. Helped me discover why I was brought back." 

"Why was that?" 

"I came to set the wrong things right." 

Lynn got to her feet and the crow made a landing on her shoulder. "You're doing well at taking care of my people, Braled. Just keep it up until Lydia gets back on her feet." She turned and disappeared into the morning mists. 

Braled watched her go and whispered "Good-bye, my Queen." 

The wolves waited a fair distance from the human camp. Though they had wanted to follow the woman and the crow, the smells of the other people had scared them off. So they waited patiently for her, all through the night and well into the next morning when they finally saw her running their way. They crawled out of the underbrush where they had spent the night and stretched before racing out to meet her. As she ran by them,they fell in behind her. 

Night fell on Lydia, cloaking the city in shadows and moonlight. Once there had been oil lamps on every street corner, but the ones that hadn't had their globes broken by vandals, had not been lit since the invaders had come. Packs of wild dogs roamed the streets, digging in garbage heaps or trying to pull victims off of their stakes by their feet, so that they might dine upon them. 

The shops and inns of Lydia had all been broken into and stripped of their treasures. Even the taverns were starting to give up the last of their ale. Ashborn's men had nearly stripped the city clean and they were starting to get bored. Soon he would have to lead them to greener pastures. 

He had been thinking of the peddler Fogel, lately, and as he stood on a balcony in the top of the palace, he remembered all the treasure that the man was hauling back and forth between here and the orient. He felt the old urges kicking up, the need to just go out and beat something that could put up a proper fight. Lydia had been just too easy. That's why the woman had bested his men yesterday. They had grown slow and lazy in the last year. With supplies running out, his men would be eager to get back into the saddle and go looking for trouble. He had heard that the Asian had secret fighting forms and martial arts and the thought of fighting someone so devoted to battle intrigued him. Below, in the courtyard, the dogs stopped badgering the corpse and started sniffing the air. They appeared to be getting agitated. All at once, they ran out of the courtyard and down the street, baying loudly. 

Asia tomorrow, he thought, my little devil tonight. 

The guards outside of the palace where hunkered down around a fire playing a simple game called blades. Basically the game involved flipping a knife back and forth across the between the six guards and trying their best not to lose a finger or hand when they caught it. Outside of the circle, Gareth squatted by himself, sulking. 

He had not taken Ashborn's verbal or physical thrashing very well and was very upset about being stuck out here with the guards he usually commanded. But besides being stuck out here in the cold, he was a little worried about the boy's story of the phantom queen. While he had scoffed at the story in front of the other men, he just couldn't help thinking of how she had laughed as she sank beneath the icy lake. Like she was in on some kind of huge joke and they were just now starting to get the punch line. 

So maybe the reason he had waved aside the boy's story was because he was afraid that Elric might have been telling the truth. Gareth had had his turn in the tent after all. 

He nearly fell over from his crouch as the pack of dogs that hung out around the palace ran by barking. They were of a mind to tear something apart, he thought as he stepped out of their way. 

The men behind him were getting to their feet and pulling their swords. They were going to go follow the dogs and see what they were after, but Gareth told them to stay where they were. All he needed was for Ashborn to look out and see that all his guards were gone leaving, the palace unprotected. He would go check on the dogs, he said, it was most likely a cat or some bitch in heat. 

Gareth pulled a torch from it's bracket on the wall, pulled his saber from it's sheathe and went in pursuit of the hounds. Ahead he could hear them baying as they closed in on what ever they had scented. He knew that he would probably stumble across some kind of canine orgy in one of the side alleys but thinking that did not help to steady his nerves any. 

Then he saw her. 

She did not sneak in the shadows as he thought some one trying to sneak into a city would. She walked right down the middle of the street, her white painted face catching the light of the moon. She didn't walk in the limping gait that he had always thought a person who had returned from the dead would. She walked with her chin high, with the smooth grace of a queen. 

Gareth was frozen with fear and wonderment for what seemed like forever, unable to get his body to respond to his brain's screams for action. Finally he broke from his trance and raised his fingers to his mouth. He blew a high pitched whistle that called the dogs, who were still a couple blocks away baying. 

The whistle died on his lips as she slowly turned her head and looked right at him. He could have sworn that she was looking right through him. But he knew that wasn't right either. She was looking into him. She was seeing the things he had done, and though she wore a smile, he didn't think she was very happy with him. 

The first of the dogs flashed out of one of the alleys and wet itself as it charged the woman. She stepped quickly, but gracefully, out the path of it's charge and there was the flash of moonlight as her sword came out of it's sheathe with a ear twitching rasp. The dog started it's jump in one piece and came down in three. 

She stepped over the mess and walked toward Gareth. He whimpered and began to back away from her. More of the dogs ran out, but the woman paid them no mind. Gareth saw why, when moments before they jumped on her, wolves flashed out of the shadows and took the dogs to the ground. A visceral fight right behind her, but she didn't spare it a glance as she came for one of her murderers. 

Gareth thrust his sword out in front of him in the most threatening way he could manage. She giggled at that, her laugh that of a little girl. 

"Do I really frighten you that much, Gareth? There was a time when you weren't so shy with me." 

A brief image flashed through his mind of him over her, her with a blank expression on her face. She winced every time he slammed himself in to her. 

"I'm sorry." he stammered. There was the crack of tears in his voice. 

"Sorry?" she asked, tilting her head slightly. "Sorry that you did it or that you got caught?" 

"Sorry that we didn't stake your whorish ass when we had the chance." he said and lunged at her. Damn, she was quick, he thought as he sliced empty air where she had been only an instant before. Then he had the odd feeling of dizziness as he watched his body continue to go forward as he apparently spun backward. His head landed on the ground with a thump and rolled a couple more feet before he came to rest against his nose. Though his vision was quickly dimming, he could see his own headless body laying a few feet away. 

The guards outside the palace jumped when someone said "Catch!" The one nearest to her caught what she had thrown and looked down to discover Gareth's severed head staring up at him. He looked back up in time to catch a high kick straight to his face, which threw him backwards in to the fire. A guard with a mace broke from his shocked paralysis and attacked Lynn. He swung the heavy spiked club at her with a force that would easily take off her head if it connected. She thrust her arm up and took the long jagged spikes into her forearm with out so much as a wince. She ripped the mace out of his hand by jerking her arm away from him. She pulled the spikes out her arm and spun the mace in her hands so that she could use it. She gave a guard right behind her a taste of her elbow, putting a quick end to his sneaky attack . Then she turned and returned the mace to it's rightful owner. Right between his eyes. He fell like a tree into the man trying to crawl out of the fire. She dropped into a low sweeping kick that took a nearby guard off of his feet. As she stood she gave another a granite cracking crotch punch which inspired the hybrid of a scream and a gasp. She stepped toward the man laying on his back and drove her boot into the bottom of his jaw. Even if it didn't snap his neck, though she thought it had, he'd never eat another thing that someone else hadn't chewed up for him. 

She stepped over her victims and started up the walkway that lead to the entrance to the palace, leaving the dead, wounded, and burning to their various predicaments. The palace had been built by a architectural genius who had served her great-grandfather. It's spires and towers were a sight to behold and were known throughout the civilized world as a testament to man's genius. Now the palace was a testament to how low men could sink. Where gargoyles had once warded off evil spirits, rotting human skulls seemed to invite them. Several of the taller towers had even been toppled over, leaving jagged teeth of brick silhouetted against the sky. The once proud banners of Lydia had been torn off and bodies now hung from their poles. 

Lynn walked up to the huge oak doors that closed the entrance and shoved against them. The oak crossbar that held them closed snapped like so much dry kindling, and the doors swung open. 

Twelve men with cross-bows stood with their weapons pointed at her. 

"You've taken my father's house," she said. "and turned it into a den of thieves." 

Brandulph turned to his men and said, "Kill her." 

Twelve bolts tore into her, making her step backward just to keep her feet. Only a few of them did not go all the way through her and out the other side. She snapped off their feathered tips and looked up at the men, who were to suprised to even reload. 

"Now, it's my turn." she said. 

In the throne room, Ashborn Wicklander sat with his sword across his lap and listened to the scuffle happening in the next room. His men were not doing to well, he was afraid. 

No, he wasn't really afraid, just a little sad was all. Brandulph had served him faithfully for years, and he would not be an easy man to replace. Ashborn appreciated his men like he appreciated good horses. For the strength of their flesh and that was it. 

It was getting quiet out there, he thought to himself. There were just a few moans from those who hadn't quite realized they were dead yet. 

The doors to the throne room slammed back and rattled on their hinges. She stood in the doorway with a loaded cross-bow in each hand. Her eyes landed on him and a chill snaked through his body. 

"You're dead." she said as she started toward him. 

Ashborn smiled and leaned forward in his stolen throne. "I don't think so, my Lady." He pointed with one finger toward Lynns left. She looked over and saw Elric standing with a stiletto dagger in one hand and the tip of that dagger was pointed at Todd's throat. She let out a funny little sound and it looked as if she might fall down. 

The whole scene seemed to have just stopped at that moment, none of the four knowing what the other intended to do. 

"So you see." said Ashborn. "You may have your little bird of ill omen, but I'm holding all the aces." 

She took a step toward Elric and Todd. Ashborn said, "Show her some blood, Elric." 

The young man looked like he would rather be anywhere else in the world right now, but he did as he was told. His stiletto twitched just a fraction of an inch and a trickle of blood ran down her son's neck. The boy whimpered and turned his wide, fear filled eyes toward his mother. 

"Any closer," the man on the throne said. "and your little pumpkin does his impression of an artesian well." 

Lynn looked back and forth between Elric and Ashborn, gauging the two men. "I don't think that Elric is going to kill my son." said Lynn. "He knows that the only thing keeping him alive right now is that my son is still breathing. I don't think he'll want to change that." 

Ashborn seemed to consider this and then he said, "Elric kill the little cock sucker. 

The man with his knife to her son's throat quickly outlined his options. The woman was going to kill him. Ashborn seemed to think that he could kill her. Ashborn was known to reward loyalty and he would need to be filling some high positions in his army after tonight. Elric could only see one out and he took it. He dragged the razor edge across the boy's throat. 

The woman let out a wailing "No!" and raised her crossbow. Elric had thought that Ashborn would kill her before she could hurt him. Apparently this wasn't the case. Lynn fired her weapon and the bolt tore through the top of his skull. 

Before Elric's body had time to drop, she turned and fired the other cross-bow at Ashborn. The man was getting to his feet when the projectile inserted itself into his taut belly. He grunted but got the rest of the way up. Lynn raised the unloaded cross-bow above her head and raced for the throne. Ashborn leaped catlike from the throne's pedestal to intercept her. With the cross-bow raised above her head, she left her chest and belly exposed. Ashborn transfixed her with his sword. She brought the cross-bow down on him. The tip of it's arch passed through the center of his rib-cage and into his heart. 

Ashborn let go of his sword and staggered back. Lynn tugged at the sword sticking through her and succeeded in pulling it out. She let it fall to the floor. Ashborn grasped the cross-bow and with a quick thrust, pulled it from his body, to Lynn's horror. 

"Weren't expecting that, were you?" 

Incredulous, she watched him bend down and pick up his sword. "Here's something you probably didn't know. One of my ancestors fought one of your kind and actually beat him. And when he was done he put him up on a stake and cut off his head. And after he cut off his head he put his mouth to the open wound and drank the blood. And you know what else? Every time some one with a urge to die comes looking for a Wicklander, they discover that Wicklander's don't die so easy." He pointed at the hole in his chest that was already closing up. "But you already knew that much, didn't you?" 

It never occurred to Lynn that she might not succeed in putting her soul to rest. Was it possible that there were limits to her immortality? She considered the consequences as she stepped backwards, pulling her sword. If she failed in killing Ashborn, what would happen to her soul? The need to set things right had kept Lynn from passing on before. If she missed her chance now, would she ever see her daughter or son, or father again? 

She knew that she would have to kill this man, or possibly face eternal damnation. There was something very familiar feeling about it as she raised the sword above her head in a fighting stance. She knew it was reminiscent of the puppet show she had seen as a child, and the final battle between the God of War and the samurai. She wondered how much truth was wrapped up in that legend. 

Ashborn began his attack with a series of wide spinning slashes that Lynn found herself hard pressed to dodge. One caught her on the shoulder and snaked down across her left breast. Lynn slapped his sword aside and stabbed at his chest. Ashborn sensed the attack coming and took a step backward, out of her range. They circled each other, each looking for the the smallest opening in the others defense. Ashborn began to taunt her, describing how he had watched the dog's fight over the chunks of her daughter's body and he had even played fetch with them using one of the leg bones. He told her how he used to go visit her son in prison and tell him that Lynn was still alive and had ridden south and left her son to his fate. She knew that Ashborn wasn't lying. Not when the truth could do so much damage. 

Her eyes began to cloud up with tears and that was all the Wicklander needed. With her vision blurred, she could not see his attack, so she could only guess at how to ward it off. As Ashborn made a jab that would gone through her throat, she dropped to one knee and sliced her sword across his gut. 

She stepped out of the way as the man fell to his knees. His sword skittered off across the floor and he wheezed as his innards became outtards. His entrails spilled onto the hard marble in a wet pile. He stayed like that, on his hands and knees, heaving for his breath, as she stood over him with her sword poised for the death blow. 

"Just one thing." he said. He coughed and blood poured from his mouth. "Why do you wear a smile?" 

She looked at the body of her son, laying across the room and thought for a moment. "I think it's to remind me that I was happy once." she said. 

He nodded his head, as if that made perfect sense, and then let it drop. She tensed and brought down the sword with a slice that ended the Wicklander bloodline right then and there. The head thumped across the floor and the body fell flat. 

"Thank god." said the crow. 

She turned to where it had taken up perch on the throne. "My son was still alive, and now he's dead." she said. 

"I understand how you feel, Lynn. It's okay. It's over." 

"How can you understand how I feel? How can you even begin to understand what it's like to watch some one you love be murdered right in front of your eyes?" 

"Because I was like you once. I've seen my loved ones killed by savages. But when I came back, I failed. I was given the chance to help someone else set things right, and maybe, some how, put my own soul at rest. You helped set things right for me, Lynn. Thank you." 

"You mean, you were the one his ancestor killed?" 

The bird croaked a yes and rustled it's feathers. Then it said, "Do you feel like you're done here?" 

She looked around and discovered that she was at peace. She didn't feel the need to kill anymore. "I'm ready to go." she said. 

"You have a lot of life within you, Lynn." said the Crow. "Why don't you give your boy a little." 

At first she didn't understand what it meant and then the meaning dawned on her. It meant that those brought back from the dead could do more than just deal death. She ran to were her son's body lay and dropped to the floor next to it. He was growing cold to the touch as she picked him up and pulled him into her lap. He was so beautiful, his eyes closed and his face relaxed. She was reminded of how he had looked while she had watched him sleep, many years ago when he was but a babe. She reached up and smoothed his unkempt, bloodstained hair away from his forehead. She pulled him close and whispered into his ear. 

"I have never left you, nor will I ever." 

Then she raised the boy's head, took a deep breath, and put her lips to his. As she let the breath out, his chest began to rise and his wounds closed up. A moment later, his eyes opened. He didn't know where he was at but he was lying in his mother's arms and she was smiling. 

"You came back, mommy." 

"That's because I love you." she said. 

"I'm sorry I believed that man when he said those awful things." said Todd. Lynn put a finger to his lips to hush him. 

"It's okay." she said and kissed him on the fore head. 

"I've got to go now son." 

"Go where?" he said, suddenly scared. 

"Don't worry." she said. "If you ever need to talk to me, whisper it to a crow and they'll pass it on to me." 

She leaned over and lay down on the floor. "So tired." she whispered. Todd sat up and crawled up so he could put his arms around her. 

"Todd?" 

"Yes, mother?" 

"There is a man named Braled coming in the morning. I need you to tell him some things." 

"What is that, mother?" 

She whispered to him for a moment and then she slipped away. 

Epilogue 

The next morning, Braled road into town with an army of four hundred, armed for battle. Their horses were beat and weary from the long ride that night; Braled had kept them at a steady gallop most of the way. What they found was that the invaders were trying their best just to get the hell away from Lydia. 

It seemed that most of their leaders had been killed off during the night, and without them, their ranks just fell to pieces. At this point, most of them were willing to just leave and go back to the high mountains and crags of their birth. 

As Braled rode toward the palace, he passed scores of men headed for the city gates. As long as they didn't try to attack his men, Braled left them unmolested. He began to realize that Lynn had been right. There was going to be plenty left for them to do. The city was in ruins. It would take years to put the city back in working order, longer to return it to it's former glory. 

The palace gate was littered with bodies, when he arrived. Somehow, he sensed that Lynn had put them there. He slid off of his horse and walked the rest of the way up to the palace. Sitting on the steps, in very dirty clothes, was a boy who looked to be about twelve. 

"My mother came back for me." said the boy. He almost sounded like he was trying to convince himself. Braled knew that this must have been Lynn's son. 

"Is your mother still here, son?" he asked the boy. 

Todd shook his head. "Are you Braled?" 

The man nodded. 

"She said to tell you some things." 

Braled did not rush the boy, he gave him time say what he had to. 

"She said that you were supposed to take care of me until it I was old enough to be king." 

Braled had himself a good chuckle at that. "Oh, she did, did she?" 

The boy nodded. 

"What else did she say?" 

"She said that we were supposed to bury the dead. She said that those who do not remember their dead must sometimes be reminded." 

Braled looked around, and just from where he was standing he could see thirty corpses. The business of burying the dead would take a long time indeed. Especially with the ground frozen like it was. That was when he noticed. It had stopped snowing. And it was even starting to feel a little warm out.   
  


Well, that's all there is to it. If you liked or you just thought that it sucked e-mail me at bcampo@hotmail.com 

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[][2]

   [1]: mailto:bcampo@hotmail.com
   [2]: /or/crowffa/fanfic.html



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